I’ve been straddling the corporate dress code policy since the sun set on May, namely with a certain pair of shoes that could be criminal between the hours of 9 – 5. Or, if you’re me, 8:30 – 4:30 (I know, it does rock). These sandals resemble flip flops in that they have two black leather straps emanating from between my big and pointer toes, making a pronounced “V” across my foot.
Have I ever mentioned that I think my feet are lovely? Possibly my best physical feature. Quite the opposite of my nose.
The base of the sandals appears rubber-like and khaki in color. I’m all about comfort, and these shoes offer me the cushioning I so adore. They also look pretty casual, save the silver buckle on the strap facing the outside world, co-workers and fellow rule breakers alike. I’m safe if silver’s in the picture, right? It’s like I’m wearing jewels on my feet; what’s defiant about sterling?
The Vice President of Human Resources sent out a mass email two days ago to remind us captives that there indeed is a summer dress code – no spaghetti straps, no mini-skirts, no long shorts, and no flip flops.
What’s the point in living then?
I attempt to take the professionalism up a notch today with a pair of closed-toe pointy black heels; backless – am I a partial badass or am I not? I feel that false sense of being “on” that an additional two inches can offer a petite thing such as me-self. My on-top-of-the-world feeling soon fades as my feet begin to hurt like hell and the onset of a blister is as certain as my tendency to eat jars of peanut butter in two sittings or less.
Every time I click “print” it’s like I’m slitting my own throat, having to then walk around the corner to retrieve the pain provoking documents from the printer. Then comes the real challenge – delivering something to a co-worker on another floor (stairs enter the equation). I stand up and my knees splay outward, resisting their role to support me on this mission of a check request submission. I feel like Hank Azaria’s character in the movie The Birdcage, Agador. Story of my life.
You can do this, Jackie. You can.
No, I can’t. Or it’s that I won’t.
Sojourner Truth’s voice rings in my head as I think, “And ain’t I a woman?”
Am I? I know I’m not a girl, but a full-fledged woman?? I feel like that entity is defined by features and experiences I can’t lay claim to yet: distinguishable cheekbones, not the rounded baby face I have; smile lines framing the mouth, not the smooth skin around mine; a few broken hearts to my one; and financially independent, not on the family cell phone plan (for this I am so grateful).
A woman can wear heels all day, from her front door to the metro, on the metro and off to work, all day in the office, and back home – maybe stopping at a happy hour on the way. I wear a most well-supported sandal (<3 Mephisto) to and from the office, work shoes resting in my yoga bag, and then only put those on when standing on carpeted terrain outside my cubicle. While in the cubicle, I’m barefoot.
Yeah, you heard me. Free as a bird.
I can’t even sit like a lady. I’m in half lotus all day. Screw that side-saddle nonsense. I can’t fight the urge to be comfortable, natural, mimicking the good old days in the womb. I even found myself sitting Indian style on a bar stool (I’ve got good balance) at this classy bar across the street from a music hall where Duke Ellington used to play. Duke would understand.
A woman can tolerate high-waisted dress pants - pleated, lined, and dare I say with cuffs. I sometimes have these moments on my lunch hour where I’m walking and suddenly feel like I’m a little kid trying on my mom’s clothes; the garments feel too big, even stolen from another person’s life.
It’s then that I want nothing more than to be out of these clothes, these collared button down shirts and dress pants that feel suffocating in their looseness and itchy despite being 100% cotton.
Yes, the person who doesn’t even wear a bikini wants to be naked right in the middle of Dupont Circle. I’m a hypocrite with the best of intentions.
Is it possible to get a restraining order against corporate America? If I can’t avoid it for all reasons pointing to rent, can corporate America please avoid me? It can just forget that I exist, leave me out of its will.
She can have these clothes back, this woman. She can have her pointy, high heeled shoes and her seat at the conference room table. She can look at me with cobwebs near the corners of her eyes and wrinkles around her mouth that concealer can’t help, thinking this kid in her early 20s needs to get a grip if she wants to “make it,” especially if she wants to be offered a credit card at Ann Taylor.
You know what, lady? I’m pulling out of this one. My feet won’t walk this pre-paved professional path with grooves for heels to rest in. I’ve got pedorthic sandals and a penchant for having my feet on the chair. I feel alive in a racerback tank top and capable of changing the world dressed in pajama pants.
“Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner (Jackie) ain't got nothing more to say.”
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